The Absent Man

by Robert Enright

  He had remembered them all. All these years.

  But this would lead him to her one more time as instructed. With each new face he struggled to place hers. The contours of her shapely cheekbones now rested undefined, the outline of her body was skewed, like the thread of a frayed knot.

  He was losing her.

  His shoes crunched off the dead leaves and clapped against the stone path, the mighty tombs that belonged to people of historical importance looming over him like a tidal wave of concrete. He wasn’t bothered with their names, or the need to celebrate their life with such a creation.

  All he knew was this was where he would deliver the heart. This was where he remembered.

  He took a few more steps towards the door of the small, crumbling shelter, the carved pillars cracked and faded. The rain hammered against the stone, rendering the dull building an even darker shade of depressing.

  It reminded him of a place in time, a memory that was dancing on the outskirts of his mind, somewhere he couldn’t place. He remembered nothing of life before her. All he knew was his name and how he loved her. How he would have run through every door imaginable just to be by her side.

  Now she was gone. Taken from him so long ago.

  With a solemn bow of his head, he lowered himself to one knee, the wet concrete soaking his trouser leg. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers slowly running down the damp wood of the door. The tomb stood still amongst the powerful rain, a symbol of eternal loneliness

  That’s what he had been sentenced to.

  With great care, he placed the static heart on the ground, the rain washing the last of the blood from the organ and sweeping it down the steps. He slowly rose, looking around the cemetery with his dark eyes before running a hand through his dripping hair.

  As requested, he had brought them what they had asked for.

  He would return to the outskirts of this world, hoping that today was they day they would return her to him.

  As they walked past the Oracles, Bermuda watched One begin to jolt, its machine ramping up the beeps as it pumped information from their world to ours. He shook his head in disbelief at how, even if he could describe the finest details, he would be locked up again just for speaking of it. Its eyes, a pale cream with no pupil, stared straight upwards, as if they had rolled back into its skull.

  The other three lay perfectly still.

  The only sound was the beeping of their machines. Did they even know he was watching?

  ‘Hey!’

  Denham’s voice echoed through the archive, stirring Bermuda back into the bizarre reality of his life. The mighty Neither beckoned him over, which he obliged quickly. Looking back over his shoulder, Bermuda noted that the Oracles hadn’t even flinched. He exhaled, and a slight creep danced up his spine.

  ‘Don’t stare at the Oracles,’ Denham ordered as Bermuda joined him. His hands clutched the grey gift tightly. ‘It’s rude.’

  ‘Do they even know I’m there?’

  ‘They know everything.’ Denham’s words were final, his mighty arms folded across his powerful chest, the black ‘BTCO’ T-shirt stretched to near breaking point. With his one good eye, he returned his gaze to Vincent, who slowly lowered a large book onto the secluded desk between them.

  Bermuda glanced at the two senior Neithers, his eyebrows raised. ‘Is it story time?’

  ‘This, Jones, is your legacy.’ Vincent spoke, ignoring the quip. ‘After what happened six months ago, we have taken extra steps to ensure that the fate of the world doesn’t rest upon just your shoulders. Do you know how?’

  Bermuda looked up at Vincent, meeting his grey eyes and slowly nodding. ‘By reading?’

  Denham sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with frustrated fingers. Vincent projected a warm smile, his patience higher than that of his fellow Neither.

  ‘By making sure we are prepared. We knew of Barnaby and were following up reports of his escape. While you were adamant of the incoming danger, we were unprepared. An Other as dangerous as he should not have been left in your capable hands. You were, as much as Mr Black hates to admit it, very much right on that one.’

  ‘Well if Monty wants to thank me for being so inspirational, he knows where to find me.’

  ‘Quite,’ Vincent continued, slowly opening the mighty book. Again, as with all the documentation from the Otherside, the letters were indecipherable, dancing across the pages in a criss-cross pattern. ‘This is the Tome, a new record that I alone have access to. A new brand of Other has been agreed, a way to monitor those who pose a serious threat to our world. We are no longer going to use a grading system, merely the new term.’

  ‘Exceptionals,’ Bermuda interjected, his lips tightening as he scrutinised the idea. ‘I like it.’

  ‘So far, we have only two on record, one of whom has been vanquished by yourself and Argyle.’

  ‘Even I have to admit Argyle did the worlds a favour killing that piece of shit,’ Denham added, his face betraying the praise for Argyle, a hatred that had Bermuda never understood.

  ‘With this Tome, we can help create a better balance between the worlds, keeping them safe and secure.’ Vincent nodded at Bermuda warmly. ‘Two worlds, one peace.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Bermuda waved off the BTCO creed, taking a large puff on his e-cig. The fruity plume of smoke surrounded the three of them as his eyes lit up. ‘Who else is in the book?’

  ‘You will only be informed of Exceptionals should it pertain to your case.’

  ‘So, whatever’s happening in Glasgow doesn’t involve an Exceptional?’

  ‘Not as far as we have been informed.’

  ‘Then who is it?’ Bermuda asked cheekily. ‘Is it you? Is it Denham?’

  ‘You will be informed of Exceptionals—’ Vincent began to repeat.

  Bermuda cut him off. ‘Is it me?’

  ‘Enough,’ Denham interrupted, the frustration rife across his wrinkled face, the frown arching over his eyepatch. ‘No one knows but Vincent, so leave it be.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Bermuda held his hand up, his other resting in the sling that was becoming less necessary by the minute. He scowled at the changes his body was going through, the effect of the Otherside.

  He had always felt different.

  Now he didn’t even feel human.

  It was bad enough that Vincent had figured out that he was developing an Other’s ability to heal, but now Denham knew, he began to feel even more like a freak.

  As if he could read Bermuda’s mind, Vincent slowly closed the thick, leather cover of the Tome, locking away Bermuda’s legacy for the day. His words were slathered in warmth. ‘Denham has a gift for you.’

  Bermuda raised his stitched eyebrow in surprise, turning to the hulking recruiter, a fiendish grin across his face. With an arm thicker than Bermuda’s torso, he reached for the dark, grey blanket that clung tightly to its contents that he had removed from the bag earlier.

  ‘Think of it as a get well soon gift.’

  Bermuda scoffed at the remark, slowly unravelling the grey material with one hand. As it fell to the floor, Denham unfolded and flapped open a brand-new coat, the thick, dark grey material crisp and pressed.

  Bermuda let out a whistle of admiration. ‘Now that’s a nice-looking coat.’ He beamed at Denham. ‘Didn’t know you were secret haberdasher.’

  ‘Sword, needle … it’s all the same.’

  Bermuda chuckled at the boast, knowing full well that Denham was one of the most fearsome soldiers that belonged to the Over Watch, a sort of army of knights that policed the Otherside. Argyle was also a former soldier that much Bermuda knew; however, he never spoke of what Bermuda could tell were harrowing experiences.

  ‘Well thanks. Speaking of swords when can I have mine back?’ Bermuda asked, his frustration apparent.

  ‘You do not possess a sword,’ Vincent responded curtly. ‘You were entrusted with a tomahawk of great value and rarity and Mr Black feels that until you prove yourself responsible—’

>   ‘Whatever,’ Bermuda cut him off, shaking his head at the suspension of his weapon privileges. Besides, he still had Argyle, and, as he admired it, a new coat.

  ‘It is for your protection,’ Vincent informed, pointing to the inside of the jacket with a long, bony finger. ‘The inside is lined with Argiln, the very same material that we build our armour from.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Bermuda murmured, remembering the material shattering when he was slammed through a wall by Barnaby all those months ago.

  ‘It’s re-enforced,’ Vincent reassured him. ‘Denham has done an exemplary job in fitting it between the lining of the jacket, ensuring that your actual body will have no physical contact with it.’

  ‘So that way, you won’t keep turning into one of us.’

  Bermuda flashed Denham a stern glance, his anger outweighing his fear. He relaxed upon seeing his colleague’s pearly white smile. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Maybe it will do what Argyle seems incapable of and keep you safe.’ Denham spoke, refolding the grey blanket over his rippling forearm.

  ‘Argyle has saved my life more times than I can count. Show some damn respect.’

  Denham’s one, pupilless grey eye glared at Bermuda, his hatred for Argyle a mystery that seemed to be held by the entirety of the Otherside.

  Vincent, once again, cut through the tension with a measure of calm. ‘Thank you, Denham. That will be all.’

  With a cocky salute, Denham turned and headed back towards the mighty iron doors of the Archive, his booming voice bouncing off the walls like a ping-pong ball. ‘Let me know if there are any problems with the coat.’

  Bermuda and Vincent stood in silence, listening to the regimented stride of Denham echoing off the marble floor of the Archive. With a mighty clang of metal, the large doors slammed behind him, leaving Bermuda stood by the desk, his hands clutching the protective coat in question.

  ‘It’s not black!’ he muttered, quietly enough that no one could hear the ridiculous complaint. The BTCO had just offered even more protection, yet he couldn’t see beyond the gesture.

  They were sending him to Glasgow.

  A wild goose chase over a bizarre murder.

  With a shake of his Tic Tac box, Bermuda made his way to the door, the manila folder and a new Otherside-infused jacket under his arm and a scowl on his face that would scare Satan himself.

  ‘Where are you going, Jones?’ Vincent called after him, his voice dancing carefully between a whisper and a murmur. ‘You are needed there as soon as possible.’

  Without looking back, Bermuda responded, his voice almost as broken as his body. ‘I need to make a call’

  The iron door slammed behind him, locking away the heartbeat of the BTCO once again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bermuda’s forehead pressed against the large, clear windows that lined the Virgin Train, the Midlands whipping by his window at breakneck speed. The train, a Pendalino, was designed to take corners at an angle, the entire carriage feeling like it was sliding off the tracks.

  Every time it made Bermuda feel a little sick.

  He exhaled loudly, a few gentlemen scowling in his direction across the aisle. Sat around a dingy plastic table, their fingers clicked over laptop keyboards while they spouted nonsense about ‘blue-sky thinking’ and ‘deep-diving analysis’. Bermuda looked at their suits, the ties clasped around their necks. Turn them the other way around and they became nooses.

  He looked down at himself. His grey T-shirt clung to his well-toned frame, his heavily tattooed forearms bore the words of incantations wrapped around mystic symbols. He couldn’t explain what they meant, just that Argyle had advised him on what would keep the monsters at bay.

  The religious held up crucifixes to keep the devil from the door.

  He just had them burnt into his skin.

  The chair in front of him shook slightly, the portly gentleman grunting as he slept. Bermuda’s drink, a warm can of Carlsberg sold at an extortionate price on board, shook on the flimsy table that hung from the back of it. He let another sigh, trying his best to relive the words of encouragement Ottoway had given him, trying to recreate the sense of purpose he felt then.

  He was the balance. Humanity’s best hope of maintaining the truce and marshalling the merging of the two worlds. He had power beyond any human. He could see the truth, what existed behind the curtain and what the naïve could only comprehend as a fairy tale.

  He was, in effect, the most powerful human being on the planet.

  The balance.

  Now that was a job that came with pressure.

  Bermuda took a swig of warm alcohol, coughing a small choke as the warm liquor sloshed the back of his throat. As it swirled down to the pit of his stomach, it rubbed shoulders with the fresh batch of guilt that he’d cooked up before his train had departed.

  He closed his eyes and thought back to earlier that afternoon.

  Bermuda sat on the uncomfortable plastic chair, gently testing the swivel feature as he waited. The photo booth was cramped, the walls lit up like light boards, the screen ahead repeating an advert of a young girl taking her passport picture incorrectly. The curtain had been pulled to, shutting out the busy world of Euston Station.

  He had called Angela as he had left the Shard, the November lunchtime hammering a cold shower over the landmark heavy skyline of London. It had been years since he had said goodbye to her, her eyes heavy with tears as they carted him off to his cell, the world agreeing with her that he was mentally unstable.

  Unfit to be a husband.

  Too dangerous to be a father.

  As the years had passed, she had stayed on the fringes of his life, communicating with his sister Charlotte and ensuring he was updated as Chloe grew up idolising her stepfather. Ian was a good man, a great husband, and a wonderful father figure. He had even been polite the few times Bermuda had called, even humoured him when he spoke of the monsters in the shadow.

  An all-round nice guy.

  A real son of a bitch!

  Despite his seething envy, he couldn’t hate the man, especially after everything he did for his daughter. Bermuda had a suspicion that Ian had encouraged the recent bridge that Angela was building with him, a slow pathway back to having a relationship with his daughter.

  She was even adhering to his requests that he meet Chloe in secluded locations, the small photo booth outside the security barriers being the latest meeting place. His Converse trainers rested on his overnight bag, a few shirts and underwear crammed in for an undetermined stay in the freezing North. That wasn’t the problem.

  The problem was the guilt.

  Sure enough, two sets of feet appeared on the other side of the curtain, one of them considerably smaller than the other. Before he could move, his heart melted as the blue-eyed, blond-haired face of his daughter poked through the curtain, a gap in her smile where the Tooth Fairy had visited.

  ‘Hi, Daddy!’ Her voice was trimmed with excitement.

  ‘Hey, Kitten.’

  She smiled again, scrambling into the booth, her little feet trampling over his belongings.

  ‘How you doing?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Yeah? You behaving?’

  She nodded, her piercing eyes darting around the booth, the bright lights dazzling her.

  ‘How’s school?’

  ‘It’s okay.’ She looked up at him, her eyes rendering him powerless. ‘Mummy said you can’t come to my birthday?’

  There it was: the guilt, bubbling up inside his stomach and uppercutting his heart. He tried to maintain his composure, refusing to divert his gaze from hers. The puppy dog eyes made his heart wince again.

  ‘I have to go away, Kitten.’ He stroked her hair from her eyes, the corners slowly building up with tears. ‘But I’ll tell you what. When I get back, we will go and have the biggest bowl of ice cream EVER!’

  ‘Really?’ The hope clawed at his chest, her love-filled words yanking on his heartstrings like an acoustic guitar.r />
  ‘I promise.’ He extended his little finger, which she hooked onto with her own. ‘And I will call you first thing on your birthday and sing you a brand-new birthday song!’

  She smiled at him before reaching up and wrapping her arms around his neck. He held her close to him, embracing the fruity smell of her blond hair, the fluffy trim of her coat hood tickling his nose.

  ‘You be good for your mum, okay?’

  Chloe nodded and then slowly backed out of the booth, her gloved hand wrapping around her mother’s.

  Bermuda stood and followed, stepping out onto the busy concourse and into the disappointed glare of his ex-wife. ‘Hi, Ange.’ He spoke carefully. ‘You look pissed.’

  ‘Language!’ Angela scorned him, tutting as he mimicked being scared, to his daughter’s amusement.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You really can’t make it?’ Her voice was heavy, tired of having to question him. ‘It’s her birthday, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘You think I want to miss it? And if I did, do you really think I’d go to fucking Glasgow?’ He immediately held his hand up in apology.

  Angela rolled her eyes.

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘Well I’m glad that your job is very important.’

  ‘Hey, that’s not fair!’ he replied, his voice betraying his sternness.

  ‘Fair?’ she angrily whispered, leaning away from their daughter’s earshot. ‘What’s not fair is you spending the last six months getting her hopes up and then bailing when it’s time for you to act like her dad!’

  Before Bermuda could respond, Angela tightened her grip of Chloe’s hands and used her other to wipe the tear that Bermuda’s curse had caused.

  It was getting hard to keep the positivity up.

  The curse was becoming a curse again.

  ‘Ange, I’m sorry,’ he meekly offered, his vision blurring at the edges as the tears seeped in. He couldn’t even look at his daughter.

  Just as the only two women he loved were about to disappear into the relentless stream of commuters, Angela turned to him. The mother of his most treasured possession. The woman he had vowed to spend his life with.